


Dance with me

by fabricdragon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BPAL, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Perfume, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 04, Prompt Fic, Twins, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 12:14:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13704252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/pseuds/fabricdragon
Summary: One of my very rare post season 4/Euros exists fics.Sherlock gets into serious trouble, and a familiar person rescues him... but ... aren't they dead?Mickie and I exchanged 4 prompts for Valentines day, and this is one of the works i came up with based on their prompts.  sadly my hand injury delayed it past valentine's day.Mickie's prompts: Valentine’s Day, killer Sherlock, perfume, thirteen(yes i have a totally different fic based on the same prompts)





	Dance with me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mickie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickie/gifts).



Sherlock was dancing in a hazy ballroom, he couldn’t quite see his partner but the room was twirling slowly around them… There were hearts dangling from strings on the ceiling… they dripped blood onto the floor.

_Drugs, probably._

The faces of the people around him faded in and out of focus: a cartel leader he’d killed in Barcelona, an MI6 traitor from Dusseldorf…

_I don’t remember taking any… was I drugged then? Or do I just not remember?_

He saw John, dancing with Mary– she was smiling and the blood on her dress was perfect.  Euros was playing a violin, smiling… she had puppet strings from her fingers…

_Euros?  She’d tried to kill John, hadn’t she?  She’d… she’d hurt… she’d hurt so many people…? Why… why was she still here?_

Magnussen was drinking champagne, while his brother looked sadly at him from the edge of the dance floor…Eventually he was so dizzy he collapsed, and he distantly heard someone laughing…

{Damn it, get the Narcan!} It was a familiar voice, but… Serbian?

_Narcan? Drugged then… but why?_

He felt his lungs struggling to fill with air, and realized that everyone he had seen were people he’d killed… John? His brother?  “Please God not them too…”

{I think he tried to say something…}

{Yes, well, he’s an idiot.}

He fell down into the dark.

…

He woke up, slowly, dragging himself back to consciousness as though he were pulling up through tar.

_I had left… I couldn’t face it anymore… too many deaths, too many loses… Mycroft had thought I would shoot him– I’d failed them all._

The light was bright and he hurt everywhere.

_He’d … wait… he’d gone to visit Euros? To play violin… why? Why?  She… she’d done all of this… why would I go back?_

His eyes opened slowly– hospital? Not… quite…a private room, with a bed, and an IV…

Euros had… had told him… it was all his fault…he felt panic setting in– he’d gone to Serbia?  He’d gone back to Serbia?!

“God DAMN it Holmes!” a familiar voice snapped out at him, “Hold still or I’ll duct tape you into the bed!”

He managed to focus on the familiar figure of Moriarty glaring at him as he tightened a restraint on the bed… so he was still hallucinating.  He closed his eyes and let himself be dragged under.

The next time he woke up he smelled perfume? No… cologne?  It was an ambiguous scent, leather and a rich almost cherry undertone.

“Why?” Moriarty’s voice asked him– he didn’t open his eyes.

“Why what?  Did you ask  me why?  I suppose you did, I killed you too in a way- although you weren’t in the ballroom…”

“Sherlock, if you have actually finally managed to scramble those pretty brains of yours, I will be exceedingly annoyed.”

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, to find Moriarty sitting next to his bed.  He was dressed rather casually, for him, in an open collared shirt and slacks.

“Are… you look like him… why?”

“It’s never twins– except when it is.” Moriarty snorted.

“… twins? You…” Sherlock stared at him– he certainly looked like Moriarty, even down to the pattern of stubble visible– “have… have I even met you then?”

“Several times.” He nodded, “now what the hell were you doing overdosing in Serbia?”

“When.”

“What?”

“You said you and… the man who died… were twins, and that I had met you.” Sherlock tried to sit up and found he was heavily restrained. “When. When did I meet YOU?”

Moriarty– if it was Moriarty– sat back with a smirk, “I should make you guess.”

“I don’t believe you are... You just look like he did… You can’t be him…”

“You don’t even sound convinced,” he laughed.

“…no… the pattern of stubble… the way you sit, the motion of your hands…” Sherlock thought back to the amused and laughing Jim from tea in the flat, as opposed to the bitter and  angry Jim from the roof… “It was you at tea, wasn’t it?”

“Bravo, yes it was. Now what the HELL were you doing?!”

“Being talked into suicide by a madwoman, apparently.”

**Author's Note:**

> my choice of perfumes (and the source of any scents mentioned in this fic):  
> https://blackphoenixalchemylab.com/


End file.
